The Meeting
by Tammany Tiger
Summary: This is a different form of speculative story. A meeting between Mycroft and his fellows as they try to determine what to do about Moriarty during the days just prior to Hounds of Baskerville. Basically a scene-setter for what might have been under way when Sherlock phoned Mycroft offering to cut a deal for access to Baskerville. Rated K for minor cussing.


**This one's a sort of dry story about making choices. Set in the days leading up to Hounds of Baskerville, from Mycroft's POV. It's roughly what I think may have gone on in Mycroft's mind as he dealt with Moriarty.**

**.**

**The Meeting**

Mycroft was in yet another meeting—and God be blessed, but he was tired of this particular set of meetings.

Lassiter from the Geek Squad was pounding the table. Again. "It's ridiculous. Pure stupid impossibility. It can't be done. A universal code key? You have to be joking. That's like…like… It not possible. It's a set-up." He ran his fingers through his already frowsled locks, scowling. "Mumbo jumbo."

Ann Poindexter turned dark eyes in a dark face on Lassiter, darkly. Ann heard racial slurs where none were intended, expecting a degree of politically correct vigilance too subtle and informed for the average speaker. Added to that she found Lassiter's straightforward, pragmatic view of the universe naïve. "A set-up? We found it in that magpie's nest of information on the bitch's phone…and she never intended us to see a word of it, nor did her master. What point in a set-up that's never going to be played out?"

Lassiter shrugged, resentfully. Mycroft knew that Lassiter felt Strategic Analysis was too often the winner in disputes of this nature. "Because it has to be a trick. What that memo suggests is a logical fallacy. Elegantly phrased, but there is no chance it's real. There is no algorithm possible for a code to open all doors and crack all files. It's like perpetual motion: great idea, but not happening. Breaking the speed of light: not happening. Traveling in time: not happening. This is not a logical option."

"Science disproves its own core assumptions regularly," Wendel from the anti-terrorist division whined. "Do we gamble the safety of the nation—of the world—on your cocksure assumption that something can't be done? This is our one chance to head this off before the horse leaves the starting gate. After?" He mimed a mighty explosion, voiced out the sound like a teenager describing the latest adventure movie: Pppwwwwww! "Too late, baby. Too late. We've got one chance to head this bugger off before he takes charge."

Anthea spoke, quietly, as Mycroft had trained her to do, her voice always the calm voice of reason. "There's no such thing as one chance…and no way to be sure he's not already gaming us. We want to be sure not to cooperate with his plans."

Poindexter sniffed. "We got the jump on him, thanks to Holmes' brother. We got the phone…which more than makes up for Bond Air. We won that round… it buys us time."

"Or," Mycroft said, backing his protégé, "it plays into his plans. The phone could be a sacrificed queen… tempting us to get overconfident."

A man even Mycroft knew only as "Anthony from higher up" said, softly, "Do you really think the man is that subtle, Holmes? There's no chance the Adler woman expected to lose. We know that. She's been singing like a little lark ever since your baby brother brought her back from Karachi. Nice work there, by the way…good cover up by all parties. It appears even that Watson fellow bought your outer cover on that."

Mycroft shrugged and gave a tight little smile acknowledging the compliment, but kept his focus on the underlying question. "Moriarty is proving to be among the most subtle players I've come up against, sir. Moves within moves. He turns losses into victories, and he's not just playing for power. He's playing to stave off boredom. He's…dangerous. And he wants my brother and me to come out and play."

"So you think it's real?"

Mycroft frowned. "I think he intends us to think it's real…and if that fails there will be another attempt, and another, and another. And I think they're under way already."

"What have we learned from him?" asked Anthony from higher up.

Mycroft grimaced. "That questioning a brilliant, devilish madman is a waste of time. We get nothing—or he plays us for hours, spinning out data only to have it prove a giant joke with a crass pun for a punch line, like something right out of an old Benny Hill show. Or he drops a bit of information he should not have—something dangerous to entire nations. Frankly, sir, he's managed to terrify me, because even after weeks in a holding cell he's got protections in place. We can kill him. But we can't be sure we will defeat him. It's like the layers of logical protection he and Adler had in place on that phone. Just because you won doesn't mean the victory is real. He's got dead man's switches going back level after level. Disarming him will be…a project. Even dead, he will pose a threat."

Eileen from Strategic Planning grunted soft agreement. She was an ally Mycroft trusted, insofar as he trusted anyone. She had a steady head. "The trouble, Anthony, is that it doesn't really matter if there's a universal code. Lassiter's probably right that it's a complete boondoggle—a wild goose for us to chase after. The thing is, it's the goose we've identified. If we write this one off, we hand control over to Moriarty and his infinite regression of plots within plots—mysteries within enigmas. If we go with this, though…well, we might just manage to make the man commit to one plan. Lead him to put too much into something we at least already know is fake."

"Let Moriarty think he's fooled us, sir," Mycroft said. "Let him think he's won what he wants. Let him run wild with it. If he does that, he may give us clues, openings, ways to crack his protections. Access to his dead man's switches."

"It's like disarming not just one bomb, but an entire string, isn't it?" Anthony from higher up said, frowning. "And you need to at least be able to see the red wire, don't you?"

"Yes, sir. This code thing: it's ludicrous on the face of it. So ludicrous that Moriarty could well underestimate us if we appear to fall for it. And if we open the door, if we let him in…we may be able to control the line of play."

Anthony from higher up met Mycroft's eyes. "You've not shown well against this one, Holmes. Bond Air…that was no small loss."

"No, sir," Mycroft agreed, steeling himself to show no submission. "As I said, he's dangerously good. Conversely, my brother and I are the only ones who've beaten him at all."

"Your brother, more than you."

Mycroft nodded, but pointed out, "Moriarty likes playing with Sherlock. It's hard to cut in on that waltz when both dancers are fixated on each other."

Mummad from Psych Ops said, "Is he fixated on your brother, or on you?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Overtly? On Sherlock. Sherlock's been willing to engage him as I have not until we brought him in. But in the long-term? I think it's complicated. Sherlock is…sexier. More fun. But I'm the one who holds the big prizes, and I'm vulnerable where Sherlock is concerned."

Anthony from higher up nodded, eyes hooded as he appreciated Mycroft's willingness to concede that vulnerability. "A shame you've never been able to bring that boy into the fold."

"A shame or a blessing. I will say, I'm never entirely sure. Sherlock will be a loose cannon wherever he's placed. But…I wish he were placed inside our security lines, not outside."

"If the two of you were working together—if your brother could be brought into our confidence—could you beat the layers of dead man's switches? Disarm the bomb that is Moriarty?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Too large a question to answer with any certainty, sir. The odds would be better, certainly. Use Sherlock to feint and parry and tempt Moriarty to over-invest in what we know is a silly scheme. But we would never be able to tell Sherlock everything. He jumps to conclusions, takes matters into his own hands. Sir, my brother is many admirable things. He's not a reliable team player, though. If we brought him in we'd have to handicap him at the same time. He wouldn't respond well to that."

Anthony from higher up shrugged. "Just tell him he's limited on a need-to-know basis."

Mycroft and Anthea were both startled into subdued snorts. "You obviously do not know my brother," Mycroft said, sourly. "He believes he has a need to know everything that strikes him…and remain ignorant of everything he finds tedious or threatening. He's as reliable as a spoiled toddler. You can count on him to be a tedious brat with no respect for boundaries or limitations."

"And, yet, we all know how far you will go to protect him."

"Moriarty doesn't," Mycroft said. "Moriarty's missed it. It's a…tactical advantage, at the very least."

"So you can…what?"

"I can count on Moriarty to mistake me…on many levels. That's why we've risked having me interrogate him."

"And you've…"

"Offered him access to Sherlock's life. Or so Moriarty thinks. A web of lies and truth…but convincing enough to keep him talking. Not talking much, but talking. I've tried to give the impression I'm angrier than I am over Bond Air… that I've mistake Sherlock's blundering for malice. And he is easy enough to convince that I'd happily return malice in kind. He's a malicious man himself."

Anthony from higher up looked at Eileen. "What will it mean if we can't check this man and his dead man's switches?"

She shrugged. "Strategic Planning's unhappy. He's as good as Holmes here suggests, and he's…not on the side of the angels, sir. We've had a long, quiet spell lately. The worst attacks England has faced lately have all been in the Dr. Who Christmas specials. I prefer fictional terrorist attacks by aliens to new rounds with the IRA, Qaeda, or anyone else….and Moriarty's been dealing with _everyone_ else. He's a nasty little boy, sir."

"Any suggestions?"

She sighed. "I'm inclined to go with the current narrative. Treat the code thing seriously, even if we do think it's a logical impossibility. Perhaps Holmes here can find a way to at least suggest his brother's in play, too. If we can get Moriarty to commit to this without realizing we're on to his game, we have a chance. It will involve improvisation no matter what. The man's got more kinks than an internet porn site, and he's ten times as pervy. Any plan we go with is going to start falling apart the minute it comes into contact with Moriarty. But…yes, sir. I think we go with this one."

"You trust Holmes to play him?"

Eileen glared at Anthony from higher up, and proved why Mycroft valued her as an ally. "Sir, that's missing the point entirely. I have no idea if anyone can beat this man at his own game. He's got the villain's advantage: he has no rules of engagement and he's the aggressor. It's possible none of us can reliably win against him when he chooses the playing field, the game, and the rules. But I know Holmes, sir: Mycroft will give him our best game. If anyone can win against the rabid little ferret, he can. I just think that this code thing gives Holmes the best chance of finessing a few choices for us that Moriarty can't see us claiming."

Anthony from higher up said nothing, but nodded, contemplating.

Poindexter sighed. "I'd prefer it. I know all of you think it's just a feint. But I keep worrying what it will do to us if it's real. I'd hate to be the one to have to explain we didn't act because we thought it was all a joke. Nations have been caught with their pants down before by underestimating what their enemies are technically capable of accomplishing."

Lassiter from the Geek Squad rolled his eyes. "I say we go with this one because Poindexter's wrong. It really isn't a plausible threat…and I'd much rather have us playing strategy games with the enemy over an issue we know is a no-starter. Let him play us for suckers, fine. Use it against him. Convince him we're stupid. Hand him what he thinks he wants. Play him for a fool," he said—and his voice turned to molten steel. "Then use the time and the experience we get watching him to undo the bastard. The tosser's a killer, sir. A pissy little sadist. Destroy him. Choke the little shit on his own damned games and vanity. Sell him on his own lies. Lure him into his own game. Kill him."

Mycroft and the rest gathered together all looked up, then, startled by Lassiter's passion. He was…well. He was Geek Squad. More likely to bore you stupid over three lines of elegant code than go ballistic over a meeting table begging to see an enemy wiped out.

Lassiter scowled back at them, brooding. "He's…evil, damn it. Inelegant. Brilliant noise. He's a fucking affront to the universe. He's a monster. Take him down."

"It would appear we are all in agreement on that, at least," Anthony from higher up said, voice dry and edged. "And the universal code: we all think that may prove our best line of approach on this?"

They all nodded.

"How, then, shall you proceed, Holmes?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Now that we've settled on the code as our point of attack, I will have to think about it some. If I can get Sherlock safely involved, I'd like to. But… I won't bring him in without his agreement and at least partial briefing. He's too dangerous to bring into play otherwise. If I can't involve him, I'll have to think of another way to bring Moriarty into play. I wish I could be sure of fixing his attention on whatever we use as a feint. But he's not very suggestible. Hard to manipulate."

"You'll keep us informed as your plans develop?"

"Of course, sir," Mycroft said.

The meeting broke up, then, and Mycroft retreated with Mummad from Psy Ops to attempt to develop a plan to engage Moriarty fully.

They were not as successful as they had hoped. Until Sherlock called from Baskerville, with a reminder of an old chemical weapon—and a driving need for access that made him willing to negotiate with his older brother.

It was, perhaps, a deal made in hell, rather than heaven. But as Sherlock himself would point out weeks later, on the rooftop of St. Barts, it was a deal made on the side of the angels. And thus it came to pass that one devil died—and one took flight, and fell, and came to earth…and rose again, at last choosing sides with his brother.


End file.
